


Run

by airam06



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Blood, Drug Use, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Prostitution, Suicide, Violence, attempted suicide, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airam06/pseuds/airam06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't want to remember the worst night of his life. When his usual coping mechanism falls through, he takes desperate measures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous ask on tumblr, from someone having a hard time who wanted angst with a happy ending.

“No…no, I _need_ this,” Dean begged the man, who was tucking himself back into his pants.

He sneered.

“Please,” the man scoffed. “You’re just a little drug addict whore. You’re lucky I gave you twenty bucks for a blow job.”

Dean scratched his arms, stumbling into his boxers.

“My dealer wants thirty for the next hit. Come on, man, haven’t you ever needed cash?”

He walked closer to the man, who backhanded him across the face.

“I said no. Just go find yourself another ‘client’ in an alley.”

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Dean to crumble into a mess on the floor. He needed this hit, his body ached for it. The drugs were the only things that made him forget his past, forget about his murdered mother and convicted father. Forget about Sammy, taken away by social services at six months old.

Dean pulled at his hair, bent over at the waist. It had been fifteen years to the day since he had last seen his baby brother. No, he would find some way to get those extra ten dollars. He had to. He threw his filthy, torn clothes back on and stepped out into the night, meandering up and down the streets to find someone to hustle or sell himself to. Whatever it took to get that night out of his mind.

Dean had been four years old when shouting drew him out of his bed and down the dark hallway of his house. Tiny feet walked across carpet as he moved toward the sound, and he soon came to his parents’ room. He’d never forget the sight of it for the rest of his life, try as he might. His mother lay sprawled on the bed, her lifeless eyes staring right at Dean, and her blonde hair turned crimson with thick blood. Dean’s father had stood over her, still burying the knife in her chest repeatedly, and not sparing a glance at his son. Dean backed away as quietly as he could, grabbed Sam from his crib, and ran to the neighbor’s house to bang on the door, screaming and clinging to Sam like a lifeline.

He shook his head. No, _no, NO_. He wasn’t going to relive it, not tonight. The drugs had always been there, the only respite from the constant nightmares and self-hatred. He spotted a middle-aged man coming out of a bar, and immediately bee lined for him.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was ten dollars richer. He practically ran to his dealer’s address, banging on the door until a wary looking man opened it.

“H-hey,” Dean said, shaking horribly now and darting his nervous eyes everywhere. “I got the thirty bucks. Give it to me?”

The man looked Dean up and down, and then twisted his face into a mocking smile.

“It’s forty now.”

“You said thirty!”

“Yeah, well, shit changes. You got the cash or not?” the dealer stared him down.

“Fuck no! I barely got this!” Dean shouted.

“So go get more. It’s not like you’re selling something rare, kid.”

“It’s past closing, no one else will be down to this part of town tonight,” Dean knew it was true; once the bars closed, his area was deserted.

“Better luck tomorrow then,” the dealer retorted, and closed the door with a slam.

Dean yelled and begged until a ragged neighbor stuck their head out their door and threatened to call the cops. He retreated to the empty streets and paced them, his shivers intensifying with every step. Finally, he sunk down to the ground in front of a darkened gas station, crying out. It was all too much; he needed the drugs to forget, and without them the memories were washing over him in painful waves. His mother’s eyes, his father’s hands clenched tight around the blade protruding from her chest, Sammy’s pitiful cries when the social workers pulled him out of Dean’s arms before sending them both to separate homes.

He barely registered reaching into his jeans for the small pocket knife he kept there, or that he was opening it. It glinted silver in the early morning darkness, and Dean vaguely recognized the irony of dying by a knife like his mother had. Quietly, he pressed the knife to his wrist and gave a sharp pull toward himself, not even crying out. Warm blood immediately began to seep out of the wound, and Dean didn’t hesitate to press the blade to his other wrist and repeat. He let the blade clatter to the ground and dropped his heavy arms. The pavement around him was beginning to stain red, and for the first time, Dean felt a slight pang of fear.

Suddenly, a pair of bright lights whipped around. A car was pulling into the closed gas station, and its high beams shone into Dean’s eyes. He saw their light, saw a shadowed figure jumping out of the car, and then the world began to spin as he fell forward onto the bloodied pavement, darkness claiming him at last.

*

“-Quite lucky you came around.”

Dean felt warm and dry, too lazy to even open his eyes. He could hear a pair of voices around himself.

“I forgot Gas N’ Sip doesn’t open until five on Sundays,” the second voice, low and gravelly, spoke. “I fear what would have happened if I hadn’t gone.”

“This man would be dead,” the first voice chimed back in. “We see it too often. Drug addicts, prostitutes…they lose their minds over their next hit, and decide to take the coward’s way out. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Hmm,” the gravelly voice responded dismissively, colder this time. “I’d like some time alone with him, if I may.”

“You saved his life, Mr. Novak. Have all the time you want.”

There was the sound of a door closing softly, then the shuffling of feet and the movement of a chair next to Dean’s bed. Then a hesitant hand was placed on Dean’s arm, warm and comforting.

“You _aren’t_ pathetic,” the man said in his low voice. “You are, however, very sick. I used to be, too. I…I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. Maybe because I need to say it, and you need to hear it.”

Dean struggled to pull his eyes open, and the stranger immediately retracted his hand, his own eyes wide.

“O-oh, hello,” he said. “You, um, you’re in the hospital.”

Dean just nodded.

“I know,” he nearly whispered. “Why did you do it? Why did you save me? I want it to be over.”

“Because there’s a difference to ending your pain and ending your life,” the man said. “They are not one and the same.”

“And how the hell would you know?” Dean retorted, anger bubbling to the surface. “I’m fucked up, alright? I’m insane, I’m lost without the drugs, I’m-I’m _broken_.”

At this, the other man hesitated, then pushed his sleeve up and held his arm out for Dean to inspect, not meeting his eyes.

“I wanted out too,” he chewed on his lip. “My sister found me in the tub, about a month after I killed my best friend in a car crash.”

Dean looked at the man’s arm, crisscrossed with thin white scars, then into the man’s bright blue eyes, finally looking at him. He looked pained, but whole, and Dean found himself wanting to trust him. This man wasn’t spouting bullshit at him; he was being sincere. Dean swallowed, then gently took the man’s hand in his and shook it.

“Dean Winchester,” he said, giving a weak smile.

The other man smiled back.

“Castiel Novak.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as their hands separated, and Dean took a shuddering breath, still reeling from his withdrawal.

“So, Cas…what do I do now?”

“You live.”

*

Dean bolted upright in bed, heart hammering madly and hands clasped tight around the scars from his suicide attempt two years previously. He took in great mouthfuls of air, trying to calm himself.

“I’m okay,” he reassured himself quietly. “I’m at home, I’m alright.”

The bedside lamp flicked on.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice was deep and sleep-addled. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean replied. “Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Hmmph,” Cas grumbled. “Lay back down and I will.”

Dean settled back down onto the bed, and Cas wrapped him up in his arms before cuddling closer.

“I love you,” Cas spoke softly into Dean’s ear.

“This isn’t a dream, right?” Dean said softly, the dream and late-night fears creeping in. “I’m not still broken?”

“You were never broken, Dean,” Cas answered, placing a chaste kiss on the other man’s neck. “You were only a little bent.”


End file.
